I let out a breath. A sob comes with it. Because he's no longer in front of me. Where did he go?
I listen. Silent.
Silence.
"Hello?"
"Do you have a question for me?"
"What?" He's across the room again.
"Don't you want to ask how I know about Derek?"
My brain stutters over the name. How does this stranger know about Derek?
"Um... OK. How do you?—"
"Because I killed him, Scarletta. I killed him."
The words don't land right.
I mean, I hear them. The syllables make sense individually.I. Killed. Him.Three words. Subject, verb, object. Basic sentence structure.
But my brain... buffers.
Like a video that won't load. Like my laptop when I have too many tabs open and everything freezes.
Did this man just say he killed my ex-boyfriend?
That's not?—
That can't be?—
"Don't you want to knowhowI killed him, Scarletta?"
His voice is closer now. When did he move?
"Don't you wanna know how Derek died? It's a pretty fun story…"
Fun.
He saidfun.
I'm standing here naked, blindfolded, handcuffed, my pussy still throbbing from where his fingers were inside me thirty seconds ago, and this man—this stranger who bought me at an auction—just told me hekilledmy ex-boyfriend and called it afun story.
This is?—
I need to?—
"I don't—" My voice sounds wrong. Distant. Like it's coming from someone else's mouth. "You didn't?—"
"He called you a selfish bitch when you used your safeword. Told you that you didn't know what you really wanted. That you were bad at this."
No no no no?—
"He kept going. Even after you said red. Even after you were crying. He fucked you anyway because his pleasure mattered more than your consent."
Stop.
